The owner of the house fucked the cleaning lady

She arrived at nine, as arranged. The house stood at the end of the road, behind a high fence, and as she walked from the gate to the porch, she had time to think that she shouldn't have worn those old sneakers—the house probably had parquet floors, and she'd leave a mark. But the sneakers were comfortable, easy to wash and polish, so she decided not to bother. The door was unlocked. She hesitated on the threshold, then finally went in and called softly—no one was there. The house smelled of dust and something like old furniture. She walked down the hallway and peered into the living room. The huge sofa, the rug, the fireplace, the floor-to-ceiling windows—and everything was covered in a layer of dust, as if no one had been there for a month. She took off her jacket and found a bucket, rags, and a mop in the utility room. The work was familiar; her hands had done it themselves. She washed, scrubbed, wiped the windowsills, and wiped the baseboards. It was getting on for lunch when she heard a car door slam in the yard. Then footsteps on the porch. Then a voice—low, calm: — Are you here already? She straightened up, holding the rag in her hand, and turned around. He stood in the living room doorway—the owner. Tall, in a simple shirt with rolled-up sleeves, he looked at her as if assessing how much she had managed to do. She nodded, said hello, and said she was almost finished with the living room; all that remained was to vacuum. He nodded back and walked past her, to the window, as if checking to see if she had washed the glass thoroughly. “Fine,” he said without turning around. She stood there, shifting from foot to foot, unsure whether to continue working or wait for instructions. He turned and looked her straight in the eyes. — Would you like some tea? She was confused for a second, then nodded. He went into the kitchen, and she followed. They sat at the table. He poured two cups, placed them in front of her, and sat down opposite her. He started asking her where she was from, how long she'd been cleaning, if she had children, and how she got there. These were insignificant questions, simply to fill the silence, while he looked off to the side, at the wall, at the window, at the cup, but not at her. She answered briefly. She felt a warmth growing between her legs—she herself didn't understand why. Perhaps it was his calm voice, or perhaps it was because he was big and strong, and there was no one else in the house. He spoke, and she looked at his hands, at the way he held the cup, and imagined those hands on her waist. She barely even heard what he was saying anymore. He fell silent. He put down the cup. And finally raised his eyes to hers. He stared for a long time, unblinking. She froze. Everything inside her tightened, as if about to jump into cold water. He stood up. He simply rose from his chair, and that was enough for her to understand that something was about to happen. She sat motionless, cup in hand, and watched him walk around the table. Unhurriedly. As if he had time, as if he had already decided everything, and she was simply waiting her turn. He stopped next to her chair. She was looking straight ahead, at the wall, at the cups, at anything but up. Then he took her chin and turned her face toward him. - Get up. She put down the cup and stood up. Her legs felt weak. She stood there, her eyes downcast, and he looked down at her, and she felt that gaze like something physical—heavy, crushing. She wanted to squeeze her knees together, but she didn't dare. He ran his finger down her neck, to her collarbone. Then he took her hand and led her. He didn't say a word. He simply led her from the kitchen to the living room, to where she had been dusting an hour ago, and where now stood a bucket of water and a rag. - On your knees. She looked at him. He didn't explain, didn't coax, didn't smile. He simply waited. And she sank down onto the carpet—right in front of him, in the very spot where she'd recently been crawling with the rag. Her heart was pounding somewhere in her throat. He unbuckled his belt. Slowly, looking into her eyes. Then he unzipped it, then pulled out his large cock—already hard and heavy—and held it to her face. Not giving it to her, just showing her what was next. — Open your mouth. She opened the door. And he entered—all at once, all the way, so deep that she almost choked. He held the back of her head with his hand, not hard, but enough for her to understand there was no turning back. And he began to move. Smoothly, deeply, without rushing. She heard drool trickling down her chin, her gagging, his exhalation through his nose—and the sound made her insides clench, demanding more. She placed her hands on the floor to steady herself. He noticed, but said nothing. He just grabbed her head a little harder and sped up. He fucked her mouth for a long time. He didn't rush, but he didn't give her a break either. She no longer understood how much time had passed—a minute, five, ten. Saliva ran down her chin, dripping onto the floor, onto the carpet she'd just cleaned an hour ago. Her arms were numb, her knees ached, but she didn't dare pull away. He held the back of her head and thrust deeper, and she felt his cock pressing against her throat, causing her to shake. Then he stopped. He walked out. She wanted to wipe her face, but he didn't let her—he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up. - Get up. She rose unsteadily. Her legs wouldn't obey her. He turned her to face the sofa and pushed her back—not roughly, but just enough to make her understand. She fell onto the sofa, hands on her hands, knees on the floor, and remained there—backside to him, head in the pillow. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. He lifted her skirt. Just lifted it, no preamble. He pulled her underwear down, sharply, to her knees. She heard him unzip his fly the rest of the way, his pants falling to the floor. Then she felt his hand between her legs—checking if she was wet. Wet. He chuckled briefly, emotionlessly. And entered. Right away, all the way. She screamed into the pillow. He didn't give her time to adjust—he started thrusting hard, deep, so hard that her hips slammed against his stomach. She gripped the sofa cushions and held on. He fucked her silently, breathing heavily and occasionally exhaling through his teeth. She couldn't hold back anymore—she moaned as loudly as she could into the pillow, and she felt everything inside her tightening, clenching. He tugged her hair, forcing her back to arch. The angle deepened her, and she came—abruptly, without warning, clenching around him so tightly that he momentarily lost his rhythm. But only for a moment. Then he continued—even faster, even harder. She no longer knew where one orgasm ended and another began. Then he left. She felt empty and relaxed for a second—thought that was it. But he turned her around and sat her down on the sofa, facing him. And she saw his penis—gleaming, hard, not at all tired. He nodded toward it. — Lick it. She leaned down and took it in her mouth. The taste was strange—her own lubricant, his secretions. She licked it as best she could, trying, while he looked down at her in silence. When he decided it was enough, he pulled out, turned her around, and leaned her forward—and she knew what was about to happen. He pressed the head of his cock against her ass. She tensed—reflexively, even though she was already ready inside, everything was flowing, everything was wet. He pressed. Slowly, but inexorably. She bit her lip and tried to relax. He entered—heavily, tightly, but he entered. She moaned—from the intense pain and from how it filled her completely from the inside. He waited a second. Let her adjust. And then he began to move. It was harder than from the front. Each thrust was deep, all the way through, so she could feel it somewhere in her stomach. She gripped the back of the sofa and held on. He grabbed her hips and pulled her toward him with each thrust. The slaps were loud, burning her skin, and she found herself wanting it more from the pain. He pounded her ass for a long time. She managed to cum again—just from the rhythm, from the way his thick cock filled her ass. Then he began breathing faster, harder, gripping her hips tighter. She realized he was close. He pulled out so abruptly that she screamed. He turned her around by the arm and forced her to kneel in front of him. She understood without words. She opened her mouth, took his cock, and he came. Deep, down her throat. She swallowed his sperm greedily because he held her head and wouldn't let her pull away. She swallowed it all, every last drop. Then he let go. She sat down on the floor and wiped her face with the back of her hand. He was already zipping up his fly, as if nothing had happened. "Wash the floors," he said, nodding at the spilled water and wet carpet. "And you can go." He went into the kitchen. She heard him pouring himself some tea.